


even losing you (the joking voice, the gesture I love)

by Singofsolace



Series: grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: Zelda Spellman spirals into a deep depression after the death of her niece. Hilda means well, but her methods of keeping Zelda from self-destruction might not be having the intended result.In the end, Zelda finds comfort where she least expects it.
Relationships: Dr. Cerberus/Hilda Spellman, Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Zelda Spellman & Dr. Cerberus
Series: grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110443
Comments: 53
Kudos: 82





	even losing you (the joking voice, the gesture I love)

In the week after Sabrina’s funeral, Zelda drifted above her body, utterly disconnected from everyone and everything around her. Seconds slipped and stalled and stopped, only to leap forward into hours, days—mornings, noons, midnights—all without Zelda ever once being aware of them passing.

All she _did_ know was that Hilda was the one keeping her alive. Zelda was grateful and furious at her in equal measure. After all, what was the point? For seventeen years, her life had been entirely devoted to raising Sabrina. Her only purpose was to protect her family and to ensure the Spellman name returned to its former glory, so as to secure the safety and status of future generations.

How utterly and disastrously she had failed! Never in the history of motherhood had there been so complete a failure.

(At least, that was what the voices in her head were saying, and she tended to agree with them.)

Zelda longed for the punishing sting of her cat o’nine tails to help her repent, properly _ached_ for it, but Hilda had wasted no time in hiding it from her, and even went so far as to take every single belt out of Zelda’s closet, as if she feared Zelda might improvise a weapon in her single-minded mission to punish herself.

(If she thought too long or too hard about not even being trusted to _dress_ herself, the shame and humiliation would be so great, Zelda didn’t think she’d ever recover.)

It wasn’t just her belts or her cat o’nine tails, either. Cutting knives were dulled or replaced with butter knives. Autopsy scalpels were locked in drawers that were charmed to only open for Ambrose. Even the meat tenderizer, which had always been the one domestic tool Zelda actually enjoyed using in the kitchen, had mysteriously disappeared.

Not that Zelda had the opportunity to notice all of these details at once, as she spent most of her days in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

In fact, for two full days after the funeral, Zelda didn’t get out of bed at all. She refused to do so much as lift her head to drink a glass of water. She tossed and turned beneath the covers, never quite managing to reach a state of peaceful sleep. She only moved from her bed when everyone else was long asleep, at which point she would drink deeply from a bottle of whiskey until she passed out in her bed once more. But after the third day of this pattern had come and gone, Hilda had had enough, and dragged her from the bed by her arms and legs.

Every morning afterwards, they would reenact the same tired scene, where Hilda would insist she get up to greet the day, and Zelda would just turn away from her, onto her side, praying that her sister would leave her to her grief.

(Her prayers went unanswered.)

But Hilda was nothing if not resilient. If there was anything Zelda knew about her sister, it was that she was good at surviving and carrying on. Not only that, but she was talented at taking care of other people—especially those who didn’t want to be taken care of.

Zelda remembered a time when Sabrina was little and had the chicken pox. She couldn’t get her niece to eat a single thing all day, no matter how much she pleaded with her. Zelda was at her wit's end, certain her niece would be conquered by the fever if Zelda couldn't find a way to keep her strength up. But then, Hilda came in with her famous chicken noodle soup and her hot cocoa and her easy smile, and Sabrina inhaled the soup as if she’d never refused to eat in the first place.

It had hurt, back then. The idea that Sabrina had chosen Hilda over her. 

It still did.

“Sister?”

Zelda’s ears perked up, but she didn’t lower her newspaper. She sat at the kitchen table, with Vinegar Tom curled in her lap. She still couldn’t believe that her familiar was alive while her daughter was not. But if she thought for even a moment about contacting Marie—no, Baron Samedi—she would surely fall to pieces, and she couldn’t very well do that in front of Dr. Dracula, who was sitting to her left, pretending not to stare at her as _she_ pretended not to be pretending to read the paper.

Zelda’s mind stubbornly refused to focus. The paper wasn’t even in a foreign language, and yet, she found herself incapable of reading a single article from beginning to end without her mind wandering.

Having breakfast together again was a small step towards normality, though Ambrose was noticeably absent; he was still in bed himself. He’d kept her company by the fire last night at the witching hour, a time when she tended to be at her most melancholy, and joined her in drowning away her sorrows long into the wee hours of the morning.

Clearly, he didn’t have the same tolerance for whiskey as she did.

“ _Zelds_?” Hilda spoke again, in a tone of voice that told Zelda that she’d been calling her name for quite some time.

“Yes, Hilda?” Zelda’s own voice was slightly hoarse, but she couldn’t imagine why that would be.

Zelda sat in her usual spot, with Hilda opposite her and Dr. Cerberus taking up Ambrose’s seat. There seemed to be a silent agreement that Sabrina’s chair would remain untouched. Zelda’s coffee had gone cold and her breakfast had been pushed around until it appeared that she’d eaten some of it, though she could tell by the look in Hilda’s eyes that she wasn’t fooling anyone.

“You’ve got to eat, Zelds,” Hilda chided softly, but Zelda hardly thought she could keep a piece of toast in her stomach without nausea sending her into the bathroom and onto her knees. 

She'd spent enough time on her knees to last her a life time.

_…Don’t you usually meet the High Priest in the Confessional? On your knees?_

Shirley’s unwelcome voice came as a flash of intrusive memory that she couldn’t stop. Ever since Faustus had put her under the Caligari spell, she’d been struggling with flashes of memory that would come at the slightest provocation. A word, a smell, a thought... all roads led to a lowcut dress, a vapid smile, and a sharp pain between her legs.

When she was a nurse in the War to End All Wars, she’d informed the soldiers that this sort of thing was called "shell-shock"; but it didn't feel right to compare her own private hell to that of a boy (and they were all boys, then—so terribly, tragically young) who'd seen his friends blown to bits.

Blinking that thought away, Zelda realized with a jolt that Hilda was looking at her expectantly, which meant she’d once again lost the thread of a conversation. She was helped back to the topic by the fact that her sister’s gaze was flittering between her and her plate.

“I’m sorry for wasting your cooking, sister. I’m just not that hungry.”

Hilda exchanged a worried glance with Dr. Cerberus, who had been unusually quiet and subdued ever since he and Hilda had decided to move into the mortuary. The move wasn’t complete; they still hadn’t finished packing up his house—in fact, Zelda vaguely remembered that she was meant to help them with all the packing and moving boxes _today_ —but he had yet to complain about the abrupt change from private marital bliss to sisterly codependence.

“You’ll be all skin and bone soon, Zelda. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Zelda was about to make a scathing comment—something to the effect of “what I do with my body isn't your concern”—when Dr. Cee put his hand over Hilda’s on the table.

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we plan for a big lunch?” Dr. Cee said, his eyes soft as he looked between the two sisters. “I’ll open up the shop. We can reward ourselves with milkshakes after a long morning of hard work.”

Hilda seemed mildly put off by this intrusion into her coddling, but recovered quickly. Whatever plan managed to get food in her sister's stomach was alright by her. “That’s an idea. What do you say, Zelds? Lunch at Dr. Cee’s?”

The thought of going out and eating in public when simply getting out of bed had felt like a battle to be fought was unappealing, to say the least, but Zelda imagined she had little choice in the matter. Hilda could be as stubborn as a hell hound when she wanted to be.

Zelda made a noise in the back of her throat to indicate her agreement, begrudgingly grateful to Dr. Cee for interceding on her behalf and providing an excuse for her to leave the table without having touched her food.

But when Zelda rose from the table, she wasn't to have much of a reprieve, as Hilda followed her back to her room, ever her sister’s shadow. It was all under the guise of wanting to help Zelda get ready for the day, since Zelda hadn't brushed her hair or ironed her clothes in ages. Zelda didn't have the energy to try and stop her; if Hilda wanted to play "mother," so be it. It was easier to just give in and let her sister direct her how she pleased than it was to challenge each and every small degradation of her personhood.

Zelda watched as Hilda rummaged through her closet to choose an acceptable outfit. She was currently wearing her favorite kimono, and wasn't relishing the idea of having to take it off, despite knowing her sister wouldn't let her leave the house in her nightie.

She used to take pride in her clothes. Her style was everything to her. But the ever-present specter of her husband, as well as the lingering memory of Mambo Marie, had tainted so many of her things, she’d become uneasy even looking at them. There was nothing in her wardrobe that she hadn't been ravished in. That sort of thing might've been a point of pride when she was younger, but all it left now was a gnawing ache inside her.

She’d wanted to burn everything, but Hilda had stopped her just short of lighting the match.

After only a few minutes of rummaging, Hilda returned from the closet with a pair of slacks and a soft angora sweater that Zelda hadn’t worn since 1948. This one was tainted, too, but for a different reason entirely; all those years ago, Faustus had told her it made her look too “mortal” right before he peeled it off her body.

She could still remember the way he kissed her stomach. That was back when they still thought they had a future together.

“What’s wrong? Do you not like what I’ve picked?” Hilda said, concerned by Zelda’s complete lack of movement when she held out the blouse out for her to take.

“A grown woman doesn’t need her sister to dress her,” Zelda muttered, but allowed Hilda to help her slip out of her nightgown and into the sweater, nevertheless. It still fit well enough, but the rabbit hair was itchy against her skin.

Hilda paid no attention to her subtle discomfort, however, and moved on to the slacks. She held them at Zelda’s feet for her to step into, but when they were pulled up over her hips, they were too loose around the waist, despite Zelda being sure the slight curve of her belly had hardly changed at all.

“I’ll need you to give me back one of my belts,” Zelda said, addressing for the first time that she knew what Hilda had done. “Preferably all of them, as it’s ludicrous and insulting that you’ve hid them from me in the first place, but I’ll settle for one to ensure I don’t moon your husband today.”

At least Hilda had the decency to look guilty, though her words didn’t reflect the same sentiment. “We could just pin them—”

“ _Hildegard_ ,” Zelda’s voice was low and threatening, “you haven’t let me out of your sight for more than five minutes since the funeral. I think it’s safe to say I won’t have the opportunity to flagellate myself with my belt while I’m packing up your husband’s things.”

Hilda’s face was twisted into something unrecognizable in its level of misery and guilt. “That’s not…not why I…”

“Don’t,” Zelda said, holding up her hand to stop her sister’s sentence in its tracks. She didn’t want to picture herself hanging from a ceiling fan any more than Hilda wanted to say it—especially not now that young Mr. Scratch had taken a swim in the Sea of Sorrows. “Just… don’t.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in silence. Zelda took in Hilda’s worn face, shocked to see her baby sister looking so haggard and… _old_.

“I know you don’t trust me to be on my own,” Zelda said, the words catching in her throat, scraping up the sides, leaving soreness in their path, “and I’m sorry you’ve had to put your new life on hold because of me.”

Zelda reached out to take her sister’s hands. Hilda let her do it, though she was pointedly avoiding making eye contact.

“You’re my baby sister. It isn’t your job to take care of me.”

Hilda looked at her, then, with tears in her eyes. “Somebody has to. Do you expect me to let Ambrose do it instead? The same Ambrose who’s drowning himself in liquor right beside you, continuing the Spellman family tradition of drunken—”

“Don’t you _dare_ bring Father into this. Ambrose isn't anything like him, and neither am I!” Zelda dropped Hilda’s hands as if they’d burned her. “Ambrose will be fine. He survived 75 years of house arrest; he’ll survive this.”

“Will _you_?”

The words were whispered, almost as if her sister hadn’t intended to say them out loud. When their eyes met again, Zelda was shocked at how her sister’s sadness had very quickly turned into something… else. Something hot, with jagged edges. Something deep and damning and destructive. Something that said with a subtle threat in the air:

_If you lie to me, I’ll know._

Without answering—or rather, by way of answering—Zelda turned away, with one hand still clutching at her pants to keep them from falling down, and sat down at her vanity. She needed to brush the matts out of her hair. If she was going to be paraded through town today, she ought to at least _look_ like she hadn’t spent the last week sleeping the day away and then drinking till dawn.

“Are you going to just stand there staring, or will you give me one of my own blessed belts back?”

It was hard to shake the idea that this was all a bit too reminiscent of another Caligari Spell. Hilda was dressing her up like a doll, keeping her schedule, and controlling every aspect of her life. It was dehumanizing in a way Zelda wasn’t sure her sister entirely understood, since she’d never experienced it herself, and yet, Zelda didn’t know how to address it without having to acknowledge a still-festering wound.

Zelda shuddered as Hilda came up behind her in the mirror and placed a soft belt—one that was more decorative than functional—onto the vanity table. If it was intended to be a peace offering, it was a poor one, as Hilda followed the action with a final reprimand:

“I just want us to be able to talk about things _before_ they get out of hand. I want to know what you’re feeling _before_ you hurt yourself.” There was a short pause. “If Mambo Marie were here, you’d talk to her. You'd _listen_.”

Zelda stopped mid-brush, feeling as though her sister had just dumped a bucket of ice water over her head.

“What the _heaven_ did you just say?” Zelda whipped around her in her chair, her green eyes flashing.

Hilda flinched back. “Nothing—I just meant—you trusted _her_ , so why not me?”

Zelda’s chest heaved. She couldn’t catch her breath. Pain seared through her lungs, as if someone had taken a knife to her ribs and _twisted._

Marie had lied to her. No—“lied” was too soft a word. Marie had _used_ her and _betrayed_ her. Marie had made Zelda think they _loved_ each other. She’d told Marie everything that had happened on her honeymoon, and instead of treating her like she was broken, Marie had kissed her and stroked her and made her—

Zelda could barely see Hilda through her blurry vision.

“Get out.”

“Zelds—”

“Get. Out. _Now_!” Zelda shouted the last word, her heart racing as she watched Hilda briefly cower in fear before running out of the room.

It wasn’t until later that Zelda realized every object in the room was hovering threateningly in midair. How long had they been doing that? She turned back to the vanity mirror, but couldn’t bear to look at her own reflection.

Dropping her head into her hands, she heard, rather than saw, the room return itself to its original state. Every piece of furniture and object fell to the ground in unison with a decidedly loud _thud._

* * *

Zelda was good at packing. She’d done it a hundred times before. She’d spent most of her youth jet-setting around the globe, so as to come home to her father and mother and their sham of a marriage as seldom as possible. But then Edward had risen to the status of High Priest, and it was suggested—no, _demanded_ —that she and Hilda return, lest the Spellman family be seen as anything other than the most exemplary family in the Church of Night.

 _Families stick together_ , Edward had said.

The sentiment seemed nothing but a hollow platitude now, as she stared in disgust at Cerberus’ gargantuan china cabinet. Everything inside it was covered in layers and layers of dust—Dr. Cee was clearly not the sort of man who had occasion to use his mother’s good china.

It would take her all day just to clean the damn things—especially because Hilda had said in no uncertain terms that she was _not_ to use her magic for any of it.

After all, doing magic when Zelda’s emotions were heightened never boded well for the objects around her.

She worked for hours, ensuring each delicate piece was meticulously cleaned and packed away. It was almost soothing, in a way, to have work to do that didn’t require much focus. Her mind could wander wherever it liked as she went, and there was no one around to judge her for how she did it, as Hilda had mercifully left her alone—

“Miss Spellman?”

Dr. Cee’s voice was gentle—almost too gentle.

Zelda looked up from her work, her fingers running over the silver teapot she’d just removed from the china cabinet. It reminded her far too much of the tea set she’d used while she was under the Caligari spell, and so she’d paused for a moment, feeling the weight of it in her hands, and trying not to remember, but the more she fought the flashback, the stronger it became—

Her vision blurred until she saw herself twirling, twirling, twirling. Twirling until her feet bled. Twirling until she was too dizzy to see straight. Twirling until she spilled the tea, and Faustus was so furious he—

“Zelda?”

Her first name sounded wrong in Dr. Cee’s mouth. Zelda hadn’t explicitly given him permission to use it, but she figured they were family now, like it or not, and she didn’t have the energy to put up a token fight.

Dr. Cee held a cup of tea in his hand as his eyes wandered over her work. She’d packed up almost the entire china closet in a little over three hours, working at a feverish pace, completely without the assistance of magic, just as Hilda had requested.

“Yes?”

Dr. Cee moved a few steps closer, presenting the tea like a wedding gift.

“Hilda suggested you might enjoy a tea break? She’s busy packing up the bedroom or she would’ve brought it to you herself.” Dr. Cee’s voice was annoyingly soft, like he thought Zelda might strike him if he spoke too loudly.

Zelda sighed, wrapping the teapot carefully in parchment before placing it in the center of a box. “I’m not in the mood for tea.”

“You haven’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast,” Dr. Cee prodded, his eyes finding the clock on the wall, “and it’s nearing two o’clock.”

“Yes, well… there’s still so much to be done, and it all needs to be finished today, because if it isn’t, I’m not helping with the rest,” said Zelda. Despite her harsh words, she eventually took pity on the man and accepted the tea with trembling fingers. “You have an awful lot of china for someone who has lived as a bachelor for so many years.”

Dr. Cee attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re mostly my mother’s things. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of them when she died.”

Zelda’s mind briefly flashed to Sabrina’s room, which was still exactly as her niece had left it. She imagined it would stay that way forever.

“I’m sorry,” said Zelda, her lips curling as she tasted the too-sweet tea. “You don’t _have_ to move into the mortuary, you know. I don’t know why Hilda seems to think I can’t be left on my own.”

This was only partially true. Zelda knew very well why Hilda was moving back in, and before they fought earlier, she didn’t blame her for it. After all, Zelda was feeling very close to the edges of herself. She floated above her body, going through the motions of living, but not really processing anything besides the hollowness in her chest. And ever since she’d spent a night crying until dawn between Sabrina’s graves, Hilda, Ambrose, and Dr. Cee seemed to be taking _turns_ minding her.

Not that it mattered much. She was just a shadow. A ghost. A… a sleepwalker.

Except this time, she wasn’t being paraded around in floral dresses and forced to dance and kneel and—

“Zelda, are you alright?”

Zelda snapped out of her thoughts, not having realized she’d disappeared in the middle of a conversation again.

“Of course I am! It’s just… this _tea_ —it’s far too sweet.” Zelda pulled a disgusted face, though the tea didn’t really deserve it. She’d had worse.

Cerberus’ eyes were far too knowing as he took her in. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t remember how you like it. I can put the kettle on again—”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Zelda said, annoyed with herself for being so prickly with her new brother-in-law when he was clearly doing his best to give her space. After all, she assumed it was _his_ turn to watch over her, since she’d seen neither hide nor tail of Hilda for nigh on three hours.

“I really appreciate that you’re helping me move my things,” said Cerberus, gesturing to all of the boxes Zelda had finished packing. “Many hands make light work.”

Zelda refrained from saying that she’d had little choice; Hilda had practically _dragged_ her out of bed that morning, and had insisted today would be spent in service to something other than her grief.

“Where’s _your_ tea, then?” said Zelda, bothered by his hovering. If he was going to interrupt her work, he might as well take a seat.

“Oh!” Cerberus said, his eyes widening in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d want company.”

“Yet, here you are,” mused Zelda, with only half her usual bite.

With that, Cerberus rushed back to the kitchen and returned with his own cup of tea, as well as a few biscuits.

For a while, they just sat at the cluttered table, sipping their tea in silence. Zelda reached to take a biscuit, only just realizing she hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

“Those are made with my brother’s wife’s recipe,” Cerberus said, nodding to the plate. “She’s a brilliant baker, just like Hilda.”

Despite his praise, the biscuit was awfully dry, which prompted Zelda to take a long drink of her tea before responding. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about your family. How many brothers do you have?”

“I’m the oldest of three boys,” Cerberus said as he took a biscuit for himself. “So, if I may… I know a little something about having younger siblings.”

Zelda put her half-eaten biscuit down, no longer hungry. “Whatever Hilda’s told you, it won’t be the whole story—”

Cerberus shook his head, before checking behind him, as if he expected Hilda to appear out of thin air. “No, no. Hilda hasn’t told me anything. But I can always tell when you’ve had a fight, because Hilda gets jumpy, flinching at anything that moves too suddenly.”

Shame flooded Zelda’s body like a monsoon tide. She hadn’t murdered Hilda and buried her in the Cain Pit for over a year (ignoring the time Hilda had actually _asked_ her to do it), but her treatment of Hilda ever since they were children would always be a point of extreme guilt for her. “I… I’m sorry.”

Cerberus held up his hands. “No, no, I’m not trying to put the blame at your feet. My intention was to explain that Hilda hadn’t broken your confidence—I’m just observant.”

Zelda let this information wash over her before abandoning her tea cup in its saucer so she could return to her work tackling the china closet. “Hilda… Hilda said something that crossed a line today. Whether she knows how serious it was or not.”

“She does now,” said Cerberus, keeping his voice even. “Would you like to talk about it? I promise I won’t breathe a word of it to her. We may be married, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be on your side sometimes, too.”

Zelda looked over her shoulder, surprised to see that Cerberus’ offer really did seem genuine, if his open body language was anything to go by. But wasn’t Hilda’s entire point this morning that she was too trusting? That she always trusted the wrong people? That she was upset that Zelda put her trust in other people instead of her sister?

“That’s… kind of you.”

“There’s no pressure, of course,” Dr. Cee was quick to add as he grabbed a second biscuit. “It’s just, I figured this is exactly what brothers are for.”

Zelda nearly dropped the delicate plate she was lifting down from the cabinet, but recovered just in time to keep it from shattering against the floor. Cerberus stood from the table, intending to help her, but there was no need.

Taking in a long, shuddering breath, Zelda walked back to the table and put the plate down beside all the rest of the boxes.

“You consider me your sister?” she said, not knowing why her eyes were burning.

“You _are_ my sister-in-law by marriage,” Dr. Cee said carefully, putting his hands into his pockets. “Do you not want me to call you ‘sister’?”

Zelda wracked her brain for an excuse she could offer that wouldn’t seem unjustly cruel. In the end, she came up with nothing. “You can call me whatever you like. It’s just… I haven’t had a brother in… in seventeen years. It might take some getting used to.”

“We’ve got time,” Cerberus said, his smile a warm, calming thing. “Why don’t you sit down with me and finish your tea?”

Unbidden, the image of Faustus Blackwood divested of his robes flashed before her eyes. He was seated at the table of their hotel room in Rome, beckoning her to climb on to his lap.

_“Why don’t you sit, wife, and finish your…tea?”_

She fought like a tiger against the pull of the spell, but the more her mind challenged it, the more painful the struggle became.

There was only obedience.

Suddenly, she was aware that Cerberus was inside her personal space, the worry on his face as touching as it was surprising. She flinched back, not having expected him to be so close, but little did she know there was a collection of boxes right behind her, and so she tripped and lost her balance.

For a moment, she was weightless. Along with the sensation of falling, she prepared herself for pain, but it never came.

Cerberus’ hands were like warm dinner plates, big and round and solid where they touched her. He had one hand on her lower back and one hand on her bicep. The fingers curled around her arm would surely bruise; he’d dragged her back into a standing position mostly by that grip alone. The hand on her back was bracing her now that she’d regained her balance, as if he were afraid she might fall backwards again if he didn’t hold her steady.

“Zelda? I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

What a question. She closed her eyes, trying to ground herself.

But grounding herself was proving terribly difficult, when she could feel Cerberus running his thumb over her bicep, as if in apology for how hard he had gripped her to prevent her from falling. She knew it was meant to be a soothing motion, just like the hand rubbing circles into her back was equally well-intended. She knew he meant her no harm. He’d just saved her from a nasty fall.

This wasn’t Faustus’ touch. This wasn’t the Dark Lord’s. It was gentle, like Marie’s—

“No. Please. Stop.”

Zelda squirmed away from his touch. Cerberus dropped his hands so quickly, it was as if she’d shocked him with electricity.

He spoke in a rush, all of his words running together in one long stream of an apology. “Sorry, sorry, sorry! You just… you stopped talking all of the sudden and I got worried so I went over, but then it scared you, and then I just didn’t want you to fall on top of all those boxes…”

As she listened to Dr. Cee’s apology, Zelda’s mind disappeared beneath a great fog. One of her hands cradled the part of her arm that Dr. Cee had grabbed to keep from falling, while the other hand stroked the base of her throat. It was an unconscious gesture she’d gotten into the habit of doing after she’d reconnected with Faustus in front of the fire. Her neck was such a sensitive and vulnerable part of her—all it took was an ounce of purposeful pressure and she was light-headed for hours. Faustus used to suck bruises into the spot, which is why she didn’t like it to be on display, as it was now, but she didn’t know what, precisely, she could do about it, considering she hardly thought Hilda would let her have a scarf.

Whenever Faustus realized he had pressed too hard for too long, he would let a stream of insincere apologies flood out of him, because he knew one of her hard limits was not being able to breathe. He only did it to manipulate her. To make her feel sorry for him, when _she_ was the one who had been hurt. Even without really listening to Dr. Cee’s apology, she knew it was far more genuine than any Faustus had ever given her:

“…and then I remembered what Hilda told me about your blood pressure, so I didn’t want you to faint or anything, and I didn’t mean to hurt you, or, or, or… or make you uncomfortable, or, uh—I’m just—I’m really sorry I scared you…”

Zelda’s mind snapped to Marie. Marie, too, had paid special attention to her neck, but it felt different when she did it. The breathlessness Zelda felt never had anything to do with pressure, or force, or—

As if in self-preservation, Zelda’s mind abruptly flung itself to a different thought: would it be possible to request that her sister pick out only high-necked blouses from now on, or would Hilda ask her to provide a reason?

She wanted control over her own wardrobe again. She hated this angora sweater, with its scoop neck and itchy fabric; she hated that the last time she’d worn it, Faustus had ground it beneath his boots; she hated that it made her feel wrong in her body, wrong in her skin—

—and what she hated _most of all_ was that this man standing in front of her was apologizing so profusely, as if he’d done anything to her that was bad enough to warrant such an unending stream of meandering apologies.

Never in her life had a man apologized to her and actually meant it. How strange it was to hear so many honest apologies at once, and for something so small.

“…and I really hope I didn’t press too hard, sometimes I don’t know my own strength because of all that time with the incubus, and…”

“I think I need to sit down,” interrupted Zelda, waving him off in order to collapse into a chair. With shaking hands, she reached out to pick up her tea again, bringing it slowly to her lips and focusing on the too-sweet drink like it was only thing that existed.

But all of the focusing in the world couldn’t stop the sound of her own voice.

_…Now remind me, how do you take your tea? Oh! Wait! Don’t tell me. Sugar?_

Zelda’s throat burned with bile, but she focused all of her energy on tamping down the urge to vomit. She could feel Cerberus’ concern radiating towards her from the other side of the table, but he kept silent.

“Thank you for… catching me,” Zelda ground out, trying to keep her voice steady despite the inexplicable urge to scream.

“I’m sorry for scaring you into falling in the first place. You seemed lost in thought for a moment. I’d called your name a bunch of times, but you didn’t respond. It was almost like I was saying the wrong name,” Cerberus joked, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. Zelda knew he was just trying to lighten the conversation, but she was hardly interested in levity at the moment.

“What’s in a name?” Zelda parried back, quoting Shakespeare, but without much heart. All of her energy was being focused into keeping her tea down, which was becoming increasingly difficult, as the phantom scent of Marie’s—no— _Baron Samedi’s_ —incense was tickling her nose.

She needed a cigarette. Or a whiskey. Or a whiskey _and_ a cigarette.

“Speaking of names, I’m not as well-versed on etymology as I should be, despite owning a bookshop,” Cerberus said. “What does ‘Zelda’ mean?”

Zelda opened her eyes, thrown off by this abrupt change of topic, but then, she supposed she simply hadn’t followed his train of thought while her own was bouncing around inside her head.

“You’re asking… what my name means?” Zelda clarified, speaking slowly, as if to a child.

Cerberus nodded eagerly. “It’s one of those ‘conversation starters’ magazines always talk about. I just wanted to lighten the mood.”

Zelda almost snorted, realizing that what Cerberus was referring to was simply a list of pick-up lines. Nevertheless, it was as good a change of subject as any.

“My father once told me it meant ‘dark battle,’” said Zelda, before shoving her hand into her pocket to take out a cigarette.

Cerberus tilted his head. “You say that as if it… might not be true?”

Zelda took her time lighting the cigarette before she answered. “It’s not that he lied, it’s just that it’s not the only meaning. I’ve also read that it means ‘gray-haired warrior’ or ‘woman warrior.’”

“Well, that sounds fitting!” Cerberus said with false cheer, before realizing his mistake. “I mean, not about the gray-haired part. Your hair is a lovely auburn color. I didn’t mean—”

Upon her third calming drag of the cigarette, Zelda started to feel more like herself, and took pity on the sputtering man. “I’m not offended, Dr. Cee.”

“Please, call me Cerberus,” the man said. “Well, actually, ‘Cerberus’ isn’t my real name.”

_…I am not as I appear. Mambo Michelle Marie LaFleur is not my true name…_

Zelda shook her head, desperate to be rid of the flashes of memory that wouldn’t leave her alone. “What’s your real name, then? I’m sure I read it on the wedding invitations. But it will come as no surprise to you that I was… distracted… while making them.”

Cerberus laughed—a good natured, genuine laugh, which made the tightness in Zelda’s chest ease just a little bit. “My real name is Kenny Kosgrove. Do you wanna know what it means?”

Zelda could feel the tension in her shoulders fading away as she looked at Dr. Cee’s expectant, boyish face. “Well, go on. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Cerberus wiggled his eyebrows before giving her a cheeky wink, “It means good-looking.”

Zelda had just taken another drag of her cigarette, and so, when the unexpected laughter bubbled out of her, it came along with a coughing fit. Cerberus immediately looked worried, and rose from his seat to tend to her, but she waved him off. As soon as Cerberus saw that she was okay, he began to laugh, too—big, boisterous belly laughs that filled the room.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so hard. In fact, only a few hours ago she was fairly certain she’d never laugh again. It felt strange. Unfamiliar. But also… good.

This was the scene that Hilda happened upon when she came down the stairs with a suitcase full of clothes. She stopped in shock at the sight, hardly believing her eyes. “Oi? What did I miss?”

Zelda swiped at her eyes, unable to catch her breath as she continued to laugh. She hadn’t realized she’d started to cry; she’d been so wrapped up in the moment. “Your carny husband told a joke that had no right to be as funny as it was.”

Seeing how shocked Hilda still looked, Cerberus jumped to his feet and took her into his arms. “Don’t look so surprised! I’m a charming man.”

Hilda looked between her husband and her sister in complete disbelief. She hadn’t seen her sister cry with laughter in… she couldn’t _remember_ the last time she’d seen that.

“What was the joke?”

Zelda shook her head, leaning back in her chair to take another long drag off of her cigarette.

Hilda’s eyes returned to Cerberus, whose arms were still around her in a warm embrace. “Won’t you tell me, love?”

“Never. It’s a secret between my sister-in-law and me. That bond is sacred,” Cerberus said teasingly, to keep the mood light, but Zelda was nevertheless touched by it, sensing the sincerity beneath his words.

With that, Cerberus pecked Hilda on the lips before returning to his spot at the table and addressing Zelda. “What do you say? Is it time for a proper meal?”

The prospect of eating lunch in public had felt impossible and humiliating only a few hours ago, but as she looked from Cerberus to Hilda, with their expectant, hopeful faces, she realized that she had their support, no matter what happened.

“I suppose I could do with some soup,” Zelda said, thinking that this was as good a time to start as any to readjust to life outside the mortuary.

And, after all, she was certain Sabrina would want her to have the chicken noodle soup.

(For her.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a moment, please leave a comment. I'm extremely nervous about publishing this fic. I've never tried to write about depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, grief, and death all at the same time before. I'd love to know if you think I succeeded in capturing on the page what any of those things feel like when you're dealing with them all at once.
> 
> The title is borrowed from Elizabeth Bishop's beautiful poem, "One Art"


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